Edith:

The duel was long over before I was able to find a moment to myself in the study. Today was an unmitigated disaster. I had been groomed my entire life for one purpose, my birthright. I was to be the Paragon of Light. Not a Gods damned Disciple. I had trained for that one thing for years, my heritage pristine. And still, I was passed over.

My hand flashed out before me, interrupting my frantic pacing by striking the wall. The impact barely registered for me, though the stone of the wall crumbled some at my blow. How powerful would the Paragon of Light have to be to have been selected over me?

I slumped down into a nearby chair. This fretting was getting me nowhere, but I had no idea where to go from here. All the plans I had hatched, the life I had imagined, were gone. Taken from me in a moment. I had been meant to be the Paragon of Light, not anything lesser. I pulled a throw pillow from behind my back, buried my face into it, and screamed.

My grandmother’s voice cut through my torrent of thoughts. “None of that, now. You don’t have time for a crisis.”

I removed my face from the pillow. “I apparently have time for more than I thought,” I countered. “Someone else will be the hero this Round.”

“Nonsense,” she chided me. “Being The Bulwark isn’t a small role. I know I wouldn’t have won my Round without your grandfather.”

I sighed. “You’re right. I just can’t bear the thought of not living up to the family name.”

“You will,” my grandmother said. “There are plenty of Disciples who’ve made a name for themselves above and beyond. Can you name the Paragon of the 213th Round off the top of your head?”

I shook my head. “No, I can’t.”

“What about the 358th Round?” she continued.

“I can’t name him, either.” I answered, seeing where she was going with this. My stomach sank.

“But we do know of Elizabeth, The Armsmaster of the 213th and Roland, The Bulwark of the 358th.” She took a seat across from me. “The Disciples are sometimes far more important than the Paragons they ostensibly supported.”

“There’s just one problem with that,” I said.

“And what is that?” my grandmother asked.

“They both died doing the great things we remember them for. Elizabeth in the Siege of the Capital, and Roland in the Raid on the King of Shadows.” I said.

“Well, then, you’ll just have to be better, then, won’t you?” My grandmother stood up. “The feast to celebrate you being Chosen will be soon. Do get dressed for it.” She walked away, leaving no room for further discussion.

Of course it was that simple to her. Just be better than the legends that single-handedly held off entire armies for days at a time, and died in the process because that’s what happens when you single-handedly hold off an army. Just be better.

What could I possibly do to top that, really? Unless I just...succeeded where they failed? A thought occurred to me, and it was almost time for a feast in my honor. This would do excellently. I would not fade quietly into obscurity, success or failure be damned.

I strode into the dining hall, taking my place at the head of the table. Not at the Paragon’s chair, naturally, but the slightly less ornate Disciple’s chair next to it, originally intended for whoever would be my husband. I braced myself for what would likely be a lifetime of these small indignities.

The conversation was politely lifeless through the meal, the dance of pleasantries and the avoidance of difficult topics almost overwhelming in its drudgery. This collection of nobles and wealthy merchants seemed to be here primarily for appearances, or in an attempt to garner political capital that no attendee wanted to give up. This was probably my least favorite part of being born into the Maxwell line - while we were trained for combat, raised to be heroes, those around us spent more time attending to politics than actually doing anything.

The conversation wheeled around to me, a polite inquiry into my thoughts regarding the recently passed Round, and my status in the new one. I had a moment, here, and I would seize it.

I stood, and the room grew quiet, anticipating my address. “As you all know, and likely expected, I have been Chosen this round. Unfortunately, I have been chosen as The Bulwark, not the Paragon of Light as my ancestors have.” The audience collectively gasped. “I will not be taking this duty lightly, however. History books have taught us the stories of Elizabeth, Hero of the Siege, and of Roland, the Light King’s Champion. They shone brightly, more brightly than the Paragons they served. Still, they lost their lives to gain their glory, and I have no intention of following their lead there. To that end, I have a plan.”

“I will destroy the King of Shadows, and end the Divine Game once and for all.”

Gramma:

I looked up from my book, realizing night had fallen. A fire quietly crackled away in the fireplace, warming and lighting the small cabin I lived in. I couldn’t shake the feeling that either I was forgetting something, or I had been forgotten by something. I wasn’t sure which would be preferable.

My cat screamed incessantly at me, demanding his dinner. I gave him a scratch behind the ears as I got up, his soft, black hair almost impossibly soft against my skin. A willful one, this one. He reminded me a little of my grandchildren.

As I laid out a plate of food for him, and began preparing one for myself, it became apparent what I had forgotten. Emett and Lyn were supposed to have come by earlier with some bread. Where were they, anyway? I hope they hadn’t gotten into any trouble with the wolves, with Lyn’s damnable cloak.

I set about heating a bowl of rabbit stew, preparing a bowl. This would be wonderful with some buttered…

Gods damn it, where was my bread?